


Open The Door

by Trash_Baby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkward reader, F/M, Neighbour AU, Neighbours, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_Baby/pseuds/Trash_Baby
Summary: 'You had intended on yanking your door open and giving whoever it was outside making the racket a piece of your mind. In your head, you would be strong and confident and angry, and whoever it was out there would shrink back and apologize and stop being so noisy. And so that's exactly what you do. Or plan to do, at least. You got to yanking the door open, your face a mask of rage (though to be fair, you looked rather irritated and not at all threatening with your bedhead and faded Hello Kitty pajama pants), only for you to freeze at the sight of the culprit.Well, the back of them anyway.And by God was that a nice back. Broad and clearly toned, the thin grey t-shirt that stretched taut over it like a second skin left little to the imagine. Your eyes trailed down, taking in the tapered waist where the shirt was slightly looser, and then further down still to the - oh. Oh wow. That is a nice ass. A pair of low-slung black sweatpants that reminded you of vacuum-packed peaches with the way they fitted that ass. Damn.'You'll admit to being a hermit, but when you get a new neighbor, things change. All it took was for them to make a whole lot of noise and your cat to find her way into his arms.





	Open The Door

_I am a hermit._

There. You admitted it to yourself.

_I am a hermit, and I'm damn proud of it._

Yeah, okay, maybe you were stretching the truth just a bit too far there. Being a hermit fuckin' sucked, and you were ashamed of the fact. You hadn't left your apartment in _years_ , not even to go to the shops to buy food thanks to the wonders of online shopping and home delivery. Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration; you had left once or twice when it was _absolutely_ _necessary_ , but that wasn't all that often. The few friends that you had managed to accumulate in your youth had all faded away, and your fractured family members reached out to you even less than you reached out to them.

A pretty miserable existence if you thought about it.

But then again, there was a pro to every con. For example, you worked from home as an editor - and a freelance writer when the opportunity would arise - which meant that you could roll out of bed at noon and get straight to work in your pajamas with a bowl of cereal without anyone to judge you. Or you could sit up and read for  _hours_ without anyone to tell you to go to sleep, knowing that you didn't have to wake up early for anything (except for the monthly early morning call from your boss when he liked to check in on you). And then there was the fact that you had the bathroom to yourself, without anyone to fiddle with the shower settings that were  _just_ right. 

The only thing you had to worry about was your cat Padmé, She was a sweetheart, a pretty little Ragdoll cat with angelic eyes and a tail like a feather-duster. You loved her with all your heart, even when she would walk all over your desk to lay over your keyboard, or when she mewled incessantly in the middle of the night until you woke up to pet her. Yup, even then you loved her (though the next time she wakes you, you may be inclined to carry her out of your bedroom and shut the door on her to keep her out until morning). Still, it was pretty lonely, even with Padmé for company. 

Which is why you currently find yourself stood at your door, on the tiptoes of your sock-clad feet to stare out of the peephole. You had woken up to a symphony of clatters and bangs, followed by series of colorful profanities that had you blinking in mild shock at the vulgarity. Staring at your alarm clock with bleary eyes, the numbers **09:27** glared back at you - a reasonable enough time for anyone with a regular sleep schedule, but not so much for you. Not when you'd fallen asleep at half-five after a particularly challenging manuscript you'd been determined to finish. 

You had considered going back to sleep, but when the distinct sound of a cardboard box - a  _heavy_ one - being dropped on the linoleum of the hallway outside of your apartment startled your drooping eyes back open, you pushed aside any hope of catching just a few more Z's. With a sound that you refused to admit was a whine, you roll out from your bundle of blankets and pillows, scoop up an old sweater from the back of your desk chair, and shuffle blindly out of the room as you wrestled your arms into the sweater. When the cozy item of clothing is finally in its correct wearing poisition, you're proud to admit that you only managed to stub your toes twice - once on the coffee table that you'd decided to move a couple of days ago, and the second time on a newly formed pile of books beside your couch. 

"Hey, baby," You coo to Padmé when you spot her curled up on her cushion in the middle of the couch. "You hungry?"

She doesn't respond, of course, but her cocoa-brown face emerges from where it had been buried in her fluffy stomach to stare up at you with wide blue eyes. Your heart melts as always does when she looks at you like that, and a sleepy grin works its way onto your face when she jumps down to follow you into the kitchen, her tail coiling around your calves when you stop in front of the cupboard long enough to grab a mug. Setting it down, you set up your almost-too-old-to-even-work coffee machine before placing the mug in its designated place, leaving you to bend down and pick up Padmé to let the machine do its thing.

Immediately, she begins purring. She's cradled in your arms like a newborn, her tail brushing against your arm and her eyes narrowed in pleasure as your hand tickles at her stomach, and you can't help but think that maybe she's just a little bit  _too_ spoiled. After all, she does have her own cushion on the couch, and her own seat at the dinner table (when you can be bothered to eat at the table), and an unhealthy number of toys, most of which she hardly even uses. You wouldn't have it any other way though. 

Setting her back down on the ground, you switch off the clunking old coffee machine which you should probably replace and scoop up the now hot mug to take a long sip of the scalding hot liquid.  _Didn't think that through,_ you think with a wince, hurriedly placing the mug onto the counter to grab a glass and fill it with cold water. It soothed the burn in your throat, though another sudden bang from outside your apartment makes you jolt and start choking on it. Coughing and spluttering, you struggle to catch your breath, and when you finally do, you spin on your heel to glare at the door, some kind of pain and embarrassment-fueled rage taking over as you all but storm over to it.

You had intended on yanking your door open and giving whoever it was outside making the racket a piece of your mind. In your head, you would be strong and confident and angry, and whoever it was out there would shrink back and apologize and stop being so noisy. And so that's exactly what you do. Or plan to do, at least. You got to yanking the door open, your face a mask of rage (though to be fair, you looked rather irritated and not at all threatening with your bedhead and faded Hello Kitty pajama pants), only for you to freeze at the sight of the culprit.

Well, the back of them anyway.

And by  _God_ was that a nice back. Broad and clearly toned, the thin grey t-shirt that stretched taut over it like a second skin left little to the imagine. Your eyes trailed down, taking in the tapered waist where the shirt was slightly looser, and then further down still to the - oh. Oh  _wow._ That is a  _nice ass_. A pair of low-slung black sweatpants that reminded you of vacuum-packed peaches with the way they fitted that ass.  _Damn._

With a squeak, you panic and slam the door shut, the sound echoing down the corridor and no doubt drawing the mystery guy's attention. Gulping quietly, you peel your back from the door and turn to cast a hesitant peek out of the peephole. The sight that meets your eyes makes your breath stick in your throat and your heart beat double-time, because damn, if you thought the backside of this guy was nice, then the front was a masterpiece. He's frowning in confusion, brows drawn together above the crystalline blue eyes stand that out from his tanned face, framed by thick lashes that you're instantly jealous of. His square jaw is dusted with stubble, and his down-turned lips look so pink that you ponder the possibility of him currently wearing lipstick. His hair is tied up in a sloppy bun, though loose strands skim his shoulders, and your eyes slip down on their own accord to take in the way that his shirt stretches over his chest. 

You can't decide whether you prefer the way it covers his back or his chest, though you like the way it hugs at his arms, and you _definitely_ like the sliver of skin that you can just see peeking out from between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants. Sweat breaks out on your forehead, and you swallow thickly, reaching up to wipe at your face with the back of your hand as you continue watching him, too enraptured to look away, even though what you was doing was  _definitely_ creepy. He bends down suddenly, your heart fluttering at the sight of his muscles flexing beneath the shirt, only for your heart to stop altogether and for dread to fill you when he stands up.

Padmé.

She was held in his arms much like she had been in yours a few minutes ago, looking considerably smaller in his hold. A small smile is playing at his lips, but you're panicking too much to admire the view, no matter how beautiful it was. Part of you wants to throw the door open, scoop her up, and dash back into the safety of your apartment. Another part points out that you look quite crazy right now, and that you should at least fix your hair before opening the door again.

And so that's what you do. 

Pushing away from the door, you scurry to the mirror in your room, grabbing a brush in one hand and a hair tie in the other before getting to work. You give up on brushing it after the second pass of the bristles through your sleep-tangled locks, and so you gather your hair and tie it up in a sloppy bun, tucking the stray hairs behind your ears as you give yourself a quick once over. Not much of an improvement, but at least now you didn't have hair in your mouth and eyes. Dashing out of your room, socks sliding on the hardwood floor, you let out an ' _oomph!_ ' when you don't manage to stop in time and collide with the door, though you don't let this stop you. 

Glancing through the peephole once more, you see that the man is once again staring at your door, and anxiety crawls over you. You push it aside though, the sight of your darling cat curled up in his arms completely content forcing your shaking hand to open the door. You pull it open almost painfully slow, hiding your body behind the door as you peek your head around it to stare out at the man. Well, at your cat; you're too threatened by his overwhelming beauty to actually look at him without the safety of your door to hide you. 

"Um..."

_Perfect. Way to go, what a great first impression._

"This your cat?" He asks, and you nod dumbly, feeling the Brooklyn accent wash over you in his deep voice.  _Lord..._

"Can I have her back?" You mumble, still staring at her. He shuffles her in his arms, a quiet huff of laughter leaving him as he takes a step closer. 

"You sure can," He's holding her in his hands suddenly, outstretched towards you, and you have to step away from behind the door to grab her. Your eyes focus on his hands, broad with long fingers, one of them metallic and reflecting the light from above.  _The fuck..?_ "What's her name?"

"Huh..?" You mumble, eyes still focused on his hand until he shoves it into the pocket of his sweatpants, and your eyes snap up to meet his. "Oh, sorry for staring, I didn't mean anything by it."

"'s fine." He replies, giving you a small smirk, though it's clear that it wasn't fine, and suddenly you feel awful and rude.

"No, it's not. It was rude, I'm sorry," Sighing softly, you cuddle Padmé to your chest. "I've lost most of my manners, I don't really, y'know...socialize."

He nods, a quiet hum of acknowledgment leaving him. "I get ya."

"Yeah..." Suddenly, you remember that he'd asked you a question, and your cheeks flare up. "Oh! She's called Padmé, by the way."

"Padmé?" He repeats, smirk broadening as he raises an eyebrow, and you blush harder, glancing down at said cat, who was staring at the man and purring. He reaches out suddenly with his flesh hand, and you jump, but he only crooks his finger to scratch just under her chin, making her purr louder. "Well hello there, Miss Padmé, and hello to you too, Miss..?"

You blink, and it takes you a second to realize that he's asking for your name. Stuttering your name out, you wince as it comes out sounding like a question, but he only keeps on smirking at you, and suddenly he's getting closer, leaning in until your lungs seize up and you forget how to breathe. He comes to a halt, and you realize that he's leaning against your door frame, still tickling Padmé under the chin as he stares at you, that lazy half-smirk not letting up. 

"Pretty name for a pretty gal."

Some strange noise comes from you, caught between a squeak and a laugh of disbelief. "G-gotta go!" You all but yell, stumbling back and practically slamming the door in his face. Through your utter humiliation, you realize that shutting a door in someone's face is rude, but he doesn't seem to care because you can hear him laughing on the other side of it. 

"Name's Bucky," He calls through, voice raising by a decibel or two. "We'll talk later, doll."

_Oh, **Christ** , I've spoken to him for less than five minutes and he's already making your knees weak with names like 'doll'. He's gonna be the death of me..._


End file.
